Page 88 of End Game
“I wanted to say hey, get back into the flow of things, but he disappears every day as soon as the reporters leave.” We stand at the bank of elevators, Chauncey needing to take the right one, me the left. “Tell Miller to find me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
The ding is my opening and I nod to my teammate. Getting into the elevator, I hit the “close” button before anyone can join me.
The ride down to the parking garage is quick, and I’m in my car before I have to talk to anyone else. Practice was good, but the high is over and I feel antsy.
Sitting at the gate, waiting for security to let me through, I play a game of chicken with myself.
I can go home and call Layla, or I can do what I really want to do: see her.
She sounds so tired on the phone, I wonder if she’s getting any rest. I was checking out a few web articles about pregnancy and some women want to sleep half the day or more. How can she do that if she’s working and living alone?
Not only that, I miss her. I’ve told myself I don’t, but I do. The Branch that’s with her is different from the Branch on the field or the Branch in public. He’s calmer. Happier. The Branch from before I got into the league. I kinda like him.
I kinda like her.
Glancing at the passenger’s seat, the coffee cake I picked up this morning at the bakery still sitting there, I make up my mind.
The guard releases the gate and I make a last-second decision. I go right when I should probably go left.
I press the doorbell, clutching the coffee cake, and wait. The hallway is small, more confined than comfortable, with cheap brown carpeting and cold white walls etched with deep, random scratches.
Her laugh sounds through the door, followed by a deep male voice, before she undoes the lock. Her eyes go wide when she sees me. “Branch,” she breathes, gulping.
“Am I interrupting something?” I grind my teeth together, looking over her shoulder. A tall, dark-haired man stands near the sofa, smiling brightly at me. “Who the fuck is that?”
She opens the door and I walk in, squeezing the plastic tin so hard it crackles.
“Branch, this is Max Quinn,” Layla says. “Max, this is Branch.”
“Nice to meet ya.” Max sticks his hand out, his Southern drawl deeper than mine. “I’ve heard a lot about ya. Congratulations on the baby.”
Tossing a glance at Layla out of the corner of my eye, I shake Max’s hand. “Thanks. And who are you?”
“I’m Poppy’s cousin. My buddy, Cane, and I are up here with our wives for a wedding. Poppy left her sunglasses over here and I was in this part of town, so I offered to grab ’em.”
I attempt to control the exhale of breath, but Max notices and grins.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he almost whispers. “Just relax a little. And ease up on the cake, son, or you’re gonna have a mess on your hands.”
He grips my shoulder as he walks by me, telling Layla goodbye. I don’t get involved with them, just work on settling the adrenaline that had me ready to come to blows with Max.
As I listen to her giggle and tell him to come back and visit, it dawns on me this is a real thing. Probably not a one-time deal. How many times will I walk into her home to get the baby and another man will be in there?
The plastic pops again.
What if it’s her husband and he tells me I can’t see my kid? Or didn’t give him a Popsicle and made him cry?
Fuck that guy. I’m gonna kill him and he doesn’t even exist.
I’m losing my damn mind.
“Here,” she says, taking the coffee cake from me. “There’s no sense in abusing a poor dessert.”
Releasing the container, it’s dented and the cream cheese icing is stuck to the top. “Sorry,” I offer sheepishly.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, carrying the cake to the kitchen.
